Nevergirl’s

So, I’m stressing, and I know I am because I’ve been looking up insurance online. Who does that? I’m not sick, or dying, or in danger of falling victim to both any time soon (not that I can foresee anyway). The only reason I’d be so interested in the subject is – you got it – because I’m stressing. When I stress over something, I click on the refresh button endlessly. I also end up reading really boring stuff. I’m not sure why but I find it calming.

Anyway, some neighbors are coming over to check out some of our stuff. The house we’re moving to is fully furnished so we won’t be bringing tons of stuff with us – just our clothes, books, the kids’ bikes and toys, 1 aircon unit, 2 televisions, and 1 shoe cabinet. It seems strange to move with very little to lug about but I’m sure this will prove to be a good thing once we start doing the math for freight.

We’re selling our things really cheap before we move; and the husband and I agreed to give neighbors and friends first dibs on the things we will be chucking out. This sounds silly but I will miss our things. They’re part of this house that I love. I chose them with care. I’d rather they go to people I know.

This moving thing, this is really stressing me out big time. As much as I dread March 22, I can’t wait for it to come, too, so we can get this moving thing over and done with once and for all.

Medical equipment will be my undoing. Whenever I see photos of MRI and such, I am reminded in the most unwelcome way possible that bad things happen to good people for no reason whatsoever, that people age, that they get sick, that they could die.

And, of course, no other person’s dying scares me more than that of my father’s. No, he’s not dying but it scares me that at some point, he might be. When that happens, we will technically be orphans and that scares the bejesus out of me. Not having a parent is like losing, well, yourself – at least the part that had a childhood and spent it looking up to parents.

My papa is awesome.
I miss him.
He’s the original gwapo.
He’s the spitting image of my brother Jason.
When I was in grade school, my female teachers were always asking me to tell my Papa they said hi.

My Papa is awesome in ways most fathers aren’t.
He actually reads manuals.
He loves the Beatles and Bruce Lee.
He enjoys documentaries.
He uses nanchucks.
He’s a bike exhibitionist.
He’s a chess champ.
He’s a black belt at judo.
He’s quite brainy, too.
He taught me most of the things I know.
He ‘rocks’ being poor: he made us think poverty is an adventure and that having money is a disadvantage because it doesn’t prepare you for the real life ahead.

When I was 5 and my mom punished me for scribbling through a year’s worth of pad paper during vacation, he told her to stop — she should be overjoyed her 5-year-old is writing poems while other kids her age were only just learning to write their names.

I wish I can tell him I think he rocks.
I can’t.
We rarely talk, and if we do, we talk about food and how intelligent and pretty his apos are – nothing else.

Papa's the guy to your left. This was taken in 1990. I was 8, I had bangs, and my mom was dying.

I’ve always been a fan of Bob Marley but I stopped listening to his tracks after college. Reggae is so relaxing that if I keep listening to it now, I wouldn’t get anything done. I’d simply be bobbing my head to the music and spacing out. So no, I no longer listen to Bob Marley now but that doesn’t mean I stopped liking his music. I still like it. And today, while researching term life insurance, I am reminded once again why I’ve always liked him and his philosophies (not all of them, of course, but you get the idea):

Bob Marley on Loving a Woman:

You may not be her first, her last, or her only.
She loved before and she may love again.
But if she l…oves you now, what else matters?
She’s not perfect, you aren’t either,
and the two of you may never be perfect together
but if she can make you laugh, cause you to think twice,
and admit to being human and making mistakes,
hold onto her and give her the most you can.
She may not be thinking about you
every second of the day, but she will give you a part of
her that she knows you can break her heart.
So don’t hurt her, don’t change her, don’t analyze
and don’t expect more then she can give.
Smile when she makes you happy,
let her know when she makes you mad,
and miss her when shes not there.

I’m a bear. I kid you not I am. I’m sure that if they run me through a barcode scanner, it will show me up as a bear of the worst kind: the kind that does not stuff its face with food but inhales it.

Today, I spent most of my time opening the fridge and sniffing my way through leftovers. As of writing this, I have had dinner twice and I’ve plowed my way through two cups of milo, a can of pringles, several bars of chocolates (I stopped counting after the third bar), and two egg sandwiches.

Yes, I am a bear.